


Imbued

by keerawa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, POV Inanimate Object, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's hunt for the thing that killed Mary affects everyone and everything around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbued

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/spnland/profile)[**spnland**](http://community.livejournal.com/spnland/) 'Inanimately' writing contest.

There are tales of evil grimoires that have come to life, twisting the mind and soul of any who dared read them. Check page 72.

I’m not evil. I just know a lot about the world. It’s a dark place, full of things that want to bite and burn, strangle and devour. I know. It’s scrawled across my pages in ink, battle-tested facts and distant lore, shown in newspaper clippings and gruesome photos, smeared with John’s own blood when he reached for me with desperate hands.

The world isn’t all monsters. 185 is my favorite page. There are selkies there, gentle creatures that love the sea and humans, both. John keeps a picture of Mary tucked away in me, warm smile reminding us why we do this. And then there’s the boys.

I remember when Sammy first touched my cover, his bright young mind drawn to the forbidden. I whispered to him, and he opened me, studied my pages. I showed him, taught him what was out there, so he could help us fight. Dean is John’s soldier-son. But Sam is a scholar. I like to think of him as mine. It hurt when he left, but I knew it wasn’t forever. There’s no way Sam’s hunger for knowledge could be satisfied by the bland sliver of the truth they can offer him at Stanford.

John has spent the day poring over his notes, ignoring the Woman in White case that adorns the walls in favor of the one monster we’ve never stopped hunting. Yellow-eyes. A woman burns on the ceiling, dripping blood onto her infant son. Rumor and legend, painfully few historical details, eye-witness accounts. There’s an emerging pattern of demonic activity; not the usual mindless death and destruction, but some type of plan. And that should make it predictable. I can almost see it, almost trace John’s logic. But he’s keeping secrets, even from me. His latest records are stored in a manila folder.

John looks up, rubs his face with his hands. He should get some coffee. Or maybe some sleep. He flips me open to the next blank page, writes Dean’s name and a set of coordinates there. Circles it twice and slams me closed. Then John is moving, carrying his duffle out to the truck. He comes back in, looks in the bathroom, the dresser, under the bed; his regular check-out routine. But the walls are still covered with information from the case and, and he’s leaving _me_ behind. That’s not …

John pauses on his way out the door and presses a hand down on my cover, firm comfort. “Dean’ll be here soon,” he mutters, and then turns and walks out the door. A key turns in the lock.

I’ll look after him for you, John. I will. I swear.


End file.
